


Equal and Opposite

by argyle4eva



Series: Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [13]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Multi, ineffablevalentines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22587310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle4eva/pseuds/argyle4eva
Summary: Beelzebub intends to ruin Valentine's Day; Gabriel intends to save it. Together they make a highly entertaining floor show, whether they intend to or not.Written for Mielpetit/mielpetite'sIneffable Valentines prompt list, Day 6 - Perfect Date/Reservation Gone Wrong. Follows immediately after"Candy and Commericialism."Still Ineffable Bureaucracy, but back on track for the challenge with some Ineffable Husbands as well.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Series: Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535606
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54
Collections: Ineffable Valentines 2020





	Equal and Opposite

Gabriel spent an especially long time on grooming that evening, and _might_ even have purchased a suit especially for the occasion that afternoon (the tailoring hastened along by one or two - or five - minor miracles), rationalizing the time and expense as being necessary to Thwart The Wiles Of Evil in a manner that properly upheld Heaven’s standards.

Looking at himself in the full-length mirror at his apartment, he had to smile in approval. Evil wouldn’t stand a _chance_. Cashmere, his favorite, perfectly fitted, soft as a dream, in mauve-grey over a white linen shirt, with a mauve-and-green paisley silk cravat for an accent. Shoes at a mirror polish, obviously expensive, just like everything else. In honor of the holiday he was defending, a discreet golden lapel pin of a heart pierced by an arrow, a tiny, glittering ruby adorning the arrowhead. God forbid anyone confuse him with Cupid, but Cupid wouldn’t know a good suit if it bit him on his bare pink ass, so Gabriel felt safe.

All that remained was to throw on a white scarf and long grey coat, and he was ready to hail a cab to be his battle chariot.

His innate sense of direction furnished an address, which turned out to be one of London’s newest, trendiest, and priciest restaurants. Rumors were already circulating about Michelin star ratings, once the new Guide was published. It was bound to be busy, today of all days.

And it was, just not in the way anyone might have expected.

The front reception area was chaos when Gabriel stepped inside; apparently, all reservations had been completely and mysteriously lost, double-booked, or otherwise thrown into disarray, and the space was packed with angry would-be diners and harried staff attempting to sort everything out.

Gabriel raised an eyebrow, sidled around the mob, and caught the eye of a temporarily free staff member.

"I'm meeting someone, and they're already here," Gabriel told him. He had no idea what name Beelzebub had given, so he added, "About yay high - " he gestured, "- black hair, wearing black, probably fishnet in there somehow. . ."

Recognition was immediate, and the man seemed relived to have a situation he could easily resolve. "Yes, sir, right this way."

Gabriel glanced back before following, and suddenly, to everyone else's amazement, the tangled reservations began to sort themselves out, and the hubbub started to die down.

_Opening shots fired._

Gabriel was led to a table in the middle-ish portion of the restaurant’s main room, where Beelzebub waited, flicking through screens on zir phone. Ze was also dressed with flair for the occasion, though following Hell’s standards, rather than Heaven’s. Ze was also showcasing zir disdain of gender standards by mixing messages with wild abandon – no hat; longer, more feminine hair than usual, elaborately crimped in places, pulled up into a messy, insectile half-bun in back; a suit more aggressively linear in style than zir usual, black with red pinstripes. . . over a fishnet waistcoat, which in turn covered a very masculine red dress shirt, and black tie. Heavy silver rings adorned most of zir fingers, complementing fingerless black fishnet gloves, and there were no less than six silver hoops climbing the rim of zir left ear. A realistic sliver fly stud in zir right earlobe reinforced the message of zir temple mark. Polished black wingtip shoes, sporting red laces, paired with fishnet socks, completed the look. For the rest of the evening, Gabriel would notice waiters defaulting to address him with a grateful “sir,” and glossing over whatever the Hell Beelzebub was, to zir obvious amusement.

“You made it.” Beelzebub’s eyes glinted – literally, thanks to the tiny spark of hellfire that always lurked in zir pupils. “Ready to fail?”

(A grease fire exploded in the kitchen with a window-rattling fireball.)

“Ready to win, you mean,” Gabriel said, sitting down and picking up his menu.

(The grease fire was rapidly extinguished. Miraculously, nobody was hurt, and nothing damaged.)

Everything was in French, which was no problem for Gabriel, since all languages were the same to him, but he didn’t necessarily know what any of it _meant_ , being relatively new to the world of ingestible gross matter.

(At a nearby table, a nervous young man found his courage, pulled a ring from his pocket - and promptly dropped it, necessitating a humiliating scramble for retrieval.)

It was a special Valentine’s Day menu, of course. Most courses had two options. Gabriel decided to deal with the situation by ordering whatever Beelzebub didn’t, on principle.

(The young man’s partner thought the whole thing was _hilarious_ , and gladly accepted the ring when it was finally offered. They kissed.)

When the appetizers arrived, Gabriel still didn’t know what he was about to eat, but it was at least attractively plated, and the initial wine was palatable.

“Fancier than the things flies usually eat,” he said, shaking out the napkin and placing it in his lap. Perhaps not a good idea, provoking the demon sitting across form him, but he couldn’t resist the quip.

He was met with a level blue stare. “Fliezz eat whatever’s on offer,” ze said, voice perfectly even, but with a telltale buzz that said ze was annoyed. “Same as pigeons.”

(Two diners were surprised to received wildly wrong orders, and their flustered waiter was at a loss to explain the mix-up.)

Gabriel flushed and fiddled a bit more with his napkin. _Touch_ _é_ _._ Beelzebub knew he was sensitive about his wings. Objectively, they were beautiful – white underneath, grey above, dusted with mauve and iridescent green, barred and tipped with black. They reflected his angelic nature, informed his personal color palette . . . and marked him forever as a messenger: not a warrior or commander, but someone who took orders and obeyed their betters.

(Both diners decided that the food set in front of them looked so appetizing, they wouldn’t complain about the mix-up, and proceeded to enjoy their food immensely, while their grateful waiter fled to the kitchen.)

The appetizers and salad proved to be interesting; the range of new flavors and textures was a bit overwhelming, and Gabriel wasn’t sure he liked all of them, but decided he could appreciate the time that went into their preparation. The wines, at least, continued to be top-notch.

(The kitchen, somehow, ran out of steak.)

“I didn’t think you’d show,” Beelzebub commented, spearing an artichoke heart with zir fork.

(Amazingly, everyone ordered lobster until fresh packages of steak were discovered wedged at the back of a refrigerator.

“And let you ruin Valentine’s Day? Hah.”

“It tends to ruin itself,” Beelzebub shrugged. “I don’t mind having a little extra fun with it though.”

(The card reader crashed.)

Their entrees arrived.

(The card reader was miraculously resurrected.)

“I guess it all depends on your definition of fun.”

“I’m a demon, I think you can guess my definition of fun.”

(A strange dance began. Waiters found their movements turning into a real-life Busby Berkely showstopper, winding easily through the crowded tables with loaded platters; no collisions took place even when they temporarily seemed inevitable.)

(Plates were dropped, but didn’t break. Candles tipped over, but were extinguished by their own melted wax before they could start fires. Food cooked in record time, to perfection. The card reader cut in and out so many times, it developed a repeating stutter.)

(One waiter tripped, a temporary flaw in the grand dance, and bumped a table in a way that should have flipped it, but it stayed as firmly seated as if bolted to the floor. A chef quit in the middle of preparing food, deciding all the stress wasn’t worth it and that they were going to raise chickens in Wales with their cousin; their next-in-line stepped up and performed spectacularly, earning a new position and a raise the next day.)

“I . . . Oh, for God’s sake. We’re accomplishing nothing,” Gabriel declared, setting down his fork and glaring across the table at his opposite number. “All we’re doing is canceling each other out. We might as well not _be_ here.”

Beelzebub sipped wine, and set zir glass down with a sigh. “You’re right,” ze admitted.

“I think you’ve done enough ruining and I’ve done enough thwarting to keep our head offices happy. What do you say we stop now and call it a day?”

“I think that’s an idea. Are we officially off the clock?”

“Yeah, calling it: off the clock. How about a few more episodes of ‘Next In Fashion’ at my place? You bring the wine.”

“Deal.”

Gabriel got their desserts boxed to go, earning an attempted nudge-nudge, wink-wink from the waiter (which went straight over Gabriel’s head), while Beelzebub settled their bill.

(Immediately afterwards, the card reader crashed again.)

“I thought we agreed we were off the clock.”

“Oops, habit. And Hell’s p-cards tend to do that anyway.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes, left a large cash tip, and fixed the card reader _one last time_.

On their way out, Beelzebub casually liberated a bottle of wine from the racks on display at the front of the restaurant. Gabriel didn’t feel a need to say anything because, a) he was well and truly off duty now, and b) Beelzebub had an excellent eye for the good stuff; who was he to argue with that?

\---

At a table to the side, which had remained an island of calm throughout the evening, untouched by the whirlwind of bad and good luck filling the restaurant, a red-haired woman drawled to her dining partner, “Ladies and gentleman, I believe the contestants have declared a draw. Yes, yes, they’re getting the bill, aaaaaannnnd they’re gone.”

Aziraphale glanced up from his plate and watched Gabriel and Beelzebub’s exit. “That didn’t take long, relatively speaking.”

“Relatively speaking? It took us _how_ many centuries to realize we were wasting our time going head-to-head? These two are careening out of control, if you ask me. At light speed. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have their own formal version of the Arrangement in place by the end of the week.”

(Two of the waitstaff walked past the table, and one commented to the other, “What is going _on_ tonight? Is it the full moon or something?”

"In _addition_ to Valentine's Day? That might explain it," their co-worker agreed.)

“Definitely by next Saturday,” Aziraphale said, finishing his last bite and pushing his plate away, signaling their waiter that he was ready for dessert.

Crowley _mmphed_ in agreement. She was sitting sidesaddle, one elbow resting on the table, the other on the back of her chair, the better to watch Gabriel and Beelzebub (who’d been oblivious to other supernatural presences, focused as they were on each other). Since food wasn’t her thing, she’d sipped wine and provided a sports-announcer’s blow-by-blow for Aziraphale. Her legs were crossed at the knee, in deference to the flow-y, constellation-patterned blue dress she was wearing. She dangled one of her red-and-black Louboutin heels casually from her upper foot, waving it back and forth in time to her thoughts.

She’d worn her hair long, in an elaborate up-do, wound through with silver chains and dangling little pendant stars and moons, because it was the kind of thing Aziraphale would like to puzzle apart later. They had a room reserved at the Ritz - it was fun to try the tourist's perspective of London for once - but had decided to visit the new restaurant getting all the buzz while they were in town for their private Valentine’s Day celebration. Finding Gabriel and Beelzebub at the same establishment had been sheer chance, though entertaining and informative.

“This keeps up, and we’ll have an Army of Earth in no time. Might not be as much of an uphill climb as I thought.” Crowley drained her glass and set it on the table.

“We can hope,” Aziraphale said, then smiled at the waiter bringing desserts – one of each on offer, because they all looked so good there was no way to choose _just_ _one_. Crowley gladly accepted a flute of the champagne accompanying the dessert course.

Aziraphale had dressed for the occasion as much as he was likely to, meaning he was wearing exactly the same thing as always, except his velveteen waistcoat was fresh and new, without the bald patches around the buttons.

Crowley, pinning the last of her hair in place in their hotel room, had done a double-take. “Wait, did you magic that?”

“No, Aziraphale told her, working on his tie. “It’s the spare. I liked the style so much I bought two, back in the day; this is the one I haven’t worn so often.”

“I’m going to be looking at that waistcoat for a long time, aren’t I?” Crowley sighed.

Aziraphale had straightened his tie and smiled at her, the smile that was simultaneously sweet as honey and full of bastardry. “If you get bored, you can always start wondering what I’m wearing underneath. Oh, look at the time, we need to get a move on if we’re to make our reservation.” And then he’d gone swanning off for the door, leaving Crowley gaping, then scrambling (in heels) to catch up.

Because, it was true – she’d been so busy with her dress and hair, she hadn’t watched Aziraphale’s preparations very closely, and had no idea what might be wearing – anatomically or sartorially – under his normal clothes. He wouldn’t have dropped that particular tease if he _didn’t_ have something good up his sleeve (as it were), either.

Crowley bounced her Louboutin impatiently, trying not to give herself away. Without the welcome distraction of a different couple going through their paces, she was back to studying that pristine waistcoat with a great deal of fascination. Watching Aziraphale eat dessert was a good pregame show, but it was difficult not to be twitchy. And he was taking his time.

Aziraphale didn’t look at her, but she saw his lips quirk in a small, knowing smile, and she started, “You . . .”

“Bastard?” he finished, brightly.

Crowley sighed; no answer was necessary. She shifted so she was leaning both arms on the table, feet on the ground, and dabbed a fingertip in the raspberry sauce pooling on a plate around something chocolate and decadent. She licked it experimentally. “Not bad, fresh berries. Wonder where they’re getting them this time of year?”

“Care for a bite?” Aziraphale asked. There _was_ that - he was always willing to share. Possibly because he knew Crowley was unlikely to take him up on it, hah.

She was, however, always grateful for the gift of a solid straight line.

“Later,” she purred, sucking her fingertip a bit more and looking coyly over the tops of her dark glasses, letting him see the wicked glint of her serpentine eyes.

Aziraphale went pink, then smiled in appreciation. “ _Touch_ _é_ , love.”

 _Two bastards together, that’s us,_ Crowley thought, and sipped champagne.

It was, no doubt about it, the perfect combination.


End file.
